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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28548003">Between Zero and Infinity</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nocturnes_L/pseuds/Nocturnes_L'>Nocturnes_L</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Video Blogging RPF</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>(sort of), Academia, Alternate Universe, Angst, Dysfunctional Family, Eventual Smut, F/M, Flirting, Friends to Lovers, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Inspired by Call Me By Your Name, Internal Conflict, M/M, Mutual Pining, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Slow Burn, So is Dream, Swearing, Unrequited Love, basically an 80's light academia AU, dreamwastaken - Freeform, george is a smart boi, georgenotfound - Freeform, no beta we die like the enderdragon, the 80's</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 23:40:34</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,350</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28548003</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nocturnes_L/pseuds/Nocturnes_L</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>As an aspiring PhD, the past few summers have been George's only time to take a break, retreating to the quietness of the English countryside. However, one summer is slightly more impactful than others. </p><p>In June 1985, as George goes to stay at his parents' house, located right outside of Bath, the arrival of a young American academic makes those three summer months extra vibrant.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Clay | Dream (Video Blogging RPF)/Original Character(s), Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF), GeorgeNotFound &amp; Sapnap (Video Blogging RPF), GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF)/Original Character(s)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Between Zero and Infinity</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This is my first time writing a dnf fic, welcome to my journey back to the 80's! Just a few disclaimers before we embark:<br/>- this is inspired by the book and movie titled Call Me by Your Name, though I took inspiration from it, the plot and character developments are vastly different<br/>- this fic is in no way speculative about anyone's personal life/relationships, it is purely fictional and for fun<br/>- if any cc expresses discomfort about their character's involvement in this fic, I will take it down<br/>- because this fic is very academically heavy, I apologize for any inaccuracies presented. I have done my best to research relevant information regarding the topics that are being discussed here, but I am still very uneducated in them. Please, if anyone has materials/resources for me, I would gladly educate myself more<br/>- last and most importantly, ENJOY!!! :D</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>Summer, 1985</em>
</p><p>
  <em> “... Because I'm easy come, easy go…” </em>
</p><p>As he breezes pass a few cars on the M4, George is mindlessly humming the tune playing on his car radio. It satisfies him that the motorway is surprisingly scarce of vehicles at this time of day, let alone its notoriously difficult junction with M25 being unusually clear. He enjoys the nothingness during his drive back home every summer, knowing that his family awaits in their quaint little vacation house just outside of Bath. He remembers his first time driving back, through a not yet familiar route from London to Bath, sweating amidst the horrible traffic of central London while desperately trying to be punctual to his family. Driving made him anxious back then, almost as if he cared too much about the responsibility with maneuvering a large, metal machine through narrowly stretched out streets.  </p><p>He smiles at his own recollection of the first time he’s been on this road. After that followed so many summers where he came and went between his home in rural England to his work in London. Like two dots with a line named M4 connecting them. Now he’s on it once more. </p><p>As he heads westward, the Sun sets in front of his eyes, all too blinding and frankly, quite a nuisance. George shields his eyes from that garish light by raising his hand. For any other time he will appreciate how the Sun burns the sky so fiercely, the gradient of brightness, so rare in London that he yearns to capture every single time it appears, because somehow it’s always unique. However at this moment, he leans his head backwards and sighs in annoyance, having to search for a potential pair of sunglasses in every compartment within his reach with one hand, and the other gripping the steering wheel. </p><p>The Sun sets quickly and his sunglasses have only been useful for no more than fifteen minutes, but he keeps it on for the rest of his way home. When he slowly pulls up to the large space at his destination, the sky has already turned into a dark shade of blue. George steps out to stretch his shoulders, the distinctive <em> crack </em> of his joints makes him realize how little he exercised when he was in London working his life away. He sighs again, shutting the door of the car as he heads to open the trunk to get his luggage. </p><p>A small shadow running his way through his peripherals. At first he’s confused about what it could be, mind still clouded after that long drive, but after a second he remembers. His best friend for ages, his companion, coming to greet him before anyone else in the family does. Without a second thought he drops his luggage to the ground and runs towards that fast approaching entity. Ecstatic to see his long time friend, his face breaks into a giant grin. </p><p>“Aww, Mr. Steve,” he hugs the animal with fervor as the black dog wags his tail with excitement. “Happy to see me? You’re happy to see me back? Did you miss me? I bet you missed me, because I missed you so, so much.” He whispers to the dog in a low, cooing voice. Mr. Steve looks up at his owner inexplicably, panting, his tail still moving left to right without stopping. George’s heart suddenly filled with softness and joy, he kisses the dog’s head and smiles. </p><p>“Come on, let’s go see mom and dad, shall we?” </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Dinner has already been placed on the table neatly when George sits down. The welcoming and intimate odor from his favorite dishes calms his initial excitement of coming home. Maybe it’s because this scene has repeated itself for numerous times already, maybe it is his mother wearing that same affectionate smile as he walks towards her, or his father’s stern and rigid presence in the dining room, authoritative and imposing, as always---he feels some kind of déjà vu, and he thinks it gets stronger every additional summer he returns home. </p><p>“Darling, how was the drive? Was the traffic bad, per usual?” His mother asks, with genuine curiosity for his experiences and well-being, loving as ever. </p><p>He glances at his father, who sits across from him and currently looks like he’s in deep thought, and answers: “It was alright. The M4 wasn’t too crowded, surprisingly.” </p><p>“How’s your research dissertation coming along?” His father asks abruptly, looking at him with an intense gaze. The air suddenly gets colder. George isn’t sure whether it’s because of the chilliness of a English summer night, or the tension. </p><p>The familiar feeling of heaviness crashes down upon him as he is once again reminded of his work. Dr. Hunter is not a nice-going person, objectively speaking. He is strict and demanding, always expecting George to <em> be the best version of himself </em>, as he would say. George should feel fortunate, because at least Dr. Hunter isn’t holding his son to as high of a standard as he does himself. A reputable scholar at Oxford, an author of multiple esoteric books, and all and all a socially-perceived well-rounded man, George’s father never takes a break. </p><p>George doesn’t know if he wants to follow his father’s footsteps. As of now, he is, but he can change his mind at any point, can’t he?</p><p>One can say the same things about his mother, honestly, but he finds his mother much kinder and warmer. She works to express herself freely, and George would see her passion and love being transformed into fluid brushstrokes and completed paintings. She is untroubled and gracious, finding joy and goodness in almost everything, a stark contrast from his father. Sometimes George wonders how these two vastly different people ended up loving each other, but <em> opposites attract, I guess </em>. </p><p>“My dissertation is coming along well, father. Thanks for asking.” George answers briefly, not wanting to dive into his yet to be finished work. He knows his father expects a more elaborate answer, perhaps some information about the sources that he is going to use, or the arguments that he constructed, but he doesn’t care enough. It is his work after all, let alone the fact that his father never shared any of his intellectual products until they were published. </p><p>His father hums at the answer, clearly unhappy, but he doesn’t press on. </p><p>“I’m glad, darling, you’ve been working so hard back in London,” his mother beams, reaching to squeeze her son’s hand that’s resting on his thigh, her eyes filled with compassion and care. She looks at both her son and husband for a second, and decides to move onto dinner: “My loves, let’s pray before the food gets cold, shall we?” </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>God, what an intriguing concept. Theism against atheism, a debate that has been lasting since the dawn of Philosophy, yet strangely enough, George’s family has decided that they will side with the theists, firmly rejecting even the slightest possibility that God may not exist. George sits in silence as he sees his parents clasp their hands together piously, his father muttering a grace under his breath: “Lord God, Heavenly Father… let these gifts to us be blessed… Amen.” </p><p>“Amen.” He echoes after his parents. A good Christian, he is not. </p><p>Logic is the purest form of knowledge, he knows it to be true as he recalls his studies in Mathematics for his Bachelor’s degree at his alma mater in London, the university is prestigious, reputable, and his education has been exclusive, elite. He knows that the natural sciences are flawed, as your method of data collection, your approach to perception, and your means of information procession, can all fool you, alter your perception of the actual event. He is the prime example of this, as he could never distinguish colors correctly, having no concept of that “vibrant, fiery red” that he mother speaks so fondly of her spider orchids in the backyard, or that “lush, inviting green” that his friends describe to him about the new leaves in spring. He feels like he’s missing something important about the world, but he cares so much less about it now than when he was younger. </p><p>However, with Mathematics, he never has this problem regarding perception. As logic is universal, what is there to be mistaken? One’s inability to understand Mathematics solely stems from either the disinterest of learning the subject or the impatience towards practicing the way of thinking that everyone who does Mathematics sorely needs. It is a beautiful discipline, and combining it with something equally as pure---Philosophy---almost makes George wonder if he will get the chance to peak at the core of human consciousness. </p><p>Though his field of research falls largely within the sector of epistemology due to his PhD dissertation, the arguments---or rather, the objections---made in ontological philosophy interest him. He, as a prospective philosopher and mathematician, widely disagrees with the ontological arguments made by Descartes. The French philosopher compared arithmetics and geometrics with the existence of God, solely because these two ideas are formulated by the same method of establishing truths, epistemologically. Therefore, according to Descartes, the truths of Mathematics and God are both known through intuition. <em> Per se notum </em>, or, “self-evident”. </p><p>This simple and almost fault proof argument made by Descartes has been keeping George up at night for a period of time. He remembers sleepless nights endlessly reading Kant’s <em> Critique of Pure Reason </em> , or Mackie’s <em> The Miracle of Theism </em>, for push-backs against Descartes. Those nights proved to be both helpful and unhelpful. </p><p>Yet he still cannot bring himself to worship God fully like his parents do. Rather than a theological figure, he will more likely see Him as a “postulate of practical reason”, because apparently he is the most virtuous being, a beacon for humans, as Kant once said. Even then, His existence is supported by the argument of morality. Descartes’ argument thereby fails. </p><p>Is God even “the highest good”? If He’s all powerful, how can He be good? </p><p>These are the questions George’s parents don’t ask themselves. Sometimes he wishes they do, sometimes he wishes he’s more like them. </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“... Darling, are you alright?” His mother’s hand rests on his once more, he realizes he is clenching his fork so forcefully that his knuckles are white, a sign of him being deep in thought. He jolts up, and smiles at his mother. </p><p>“Yeah, I’m just thinking about my topic of research,” he spits out a half-lie. He muses at the fact that his father is now listening closely to his next words, as soon as he starts talking about his career. George swallows and turns to his father: “Sorry father, what have you been saying? I wasn’t paying close enough attention.” </p><p>“No worries. I was just telling your mother about how we are going to have another summer guest arriving tomorrow, at the latest. Your room would be the best place for him to stay in.” His father cuts apart the food on his plate and looks across the table. Two deep, dark eyes gazing at George intensely, over a pair of gold brimmed glasses. If anything, his father’s scrutiny is the most fearful. </p><p>“Ah, of course.” George shrugs. A most authoritative parent leads to a child with the most nonchalant attitude. Even though he is at least a little bit annoyed at his father, per usual, he has learned long ago that going against the head of the family does not work in his favor. </p><p>“He’s American, isn’t that exciting? I forgot which state he’s from though, is it Florida? Or is it Virginia?” George’s mother remarks, trying hard to remember. Not that it makes any difference for George. An American is an American, with their cars and movies, he hopes this one is not annoying. </p><p>“Florida. He sounded extremely excited to come here and work under my supervision, from his letters at least,” George’s father finishes chewing his food as he states matter-of-factly, wiping his mouth on a white cloth, he continues: “He is a talented writer, may I add, and he seems very well-read too. He is knowledgeable about many things and he shows that in his writing unapologetically, which adds to his character.” As Dr. Hunter lets out snippets of comments about this summer guest, George’s curiosity grows. He raises an eyebrow at his food, it goes unnoticed by both his parents. He is well aware that his father is a harsh judge, eyes always critical about any work anyone produces, especially a student’s. To garner such praise from Dr. Hunter is no small feat, George is almost envious of this individual whom he has not even met yet, a ridiculous notion indeed. </p><p>“That’s, interesting to say the least.” He therefore states, with the most neutral tone he can use. </p><p>“You two geniuses would have something to talk about then, your summer will definitely be intellectually rigorous.” His mother teases. </p><p>“I’m not sure about that, it really depends on his ability to intellectually entertain me.” George says with a smirk on his face, his mother laughs softly, smacking him light on his arm. </p><p>“Oh give the boy a chance, will you?”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>George thinks about the mysterious American a lot when he’s cleaning up his old room, leaving the space devoid of any personal belongings other than the furniture. He moves his items to the guest room next door, which, ridiculously, is connected to his old room by a bathroom. The bathroom is big nonetheless, and he has passed the point of caring about sharing the space with a complete stranger. He tries to rid all of his previous stereotypes against Americans when he thinks about the newcomer, but all he can picture about an American male is their inevitably perfect teeth when they grin smugly, an overtly friendly attitude, a shallow understanding of the world, and a god-forbidden accent where they roll their r’s like they are the most popular person ever. In the dark, George huffs against the humid night air in his new room as he drops his clothes that he gathered from his suitcases onto the bed. He decides he’ll deal with all the possible problems tomorrow, when the source of the problem actually arrives. </p><p>The night seeps in deeper and sleep wraps itself slowly around George after he has washed away the dust from the road. With soft rock in his ears, he picks up one of the books he brought back from school, the reading starts where he left right off. Although tiredness is beginning to consume him, he finds the insatiable urge to absorb the knowledge that lies within the texts, as if he hasn’t done so nearly enough. </p><p>When a substantial amount of time has passed and he has been chipping away the book in his hands, his mind can no longer focus on the dark printed letters on the yellow pages. He begins to notice the old, humid smell of dust that this room is filled by, and the shuffling of leaves on the trees just outside of his window, blown by the night wind. Strangely, George doesn’t find the wish to sleep yet, he’s restless. Switching off his reading light does not help. </p><p>So, with two bare feet and only a set of silk pajamas on, he lays his book on the nightstand and moves towards his window that gives him a great view to the front yard. The moon casts a delicious silver ray of light into his room, and he basks right in it, admiring rural England’s night sky. The constellation is clearly presented to him tonight, ethereal like it’s made from some angel’s own two hands. It’s a sight he could never have in London, with the sky polluted and thickened by chemicals and smoke. He closes his eyes to find the peace of mind, trying to ignore the brewing storm of tension that exists between him and his father. Maybe, he just needs to come to terms with it, because it has been a constant in his life that comes around in cycles, so natural, just like the number <em> e </em>. </p><p>He opens his eyes after he pulls himself out of the deep ocean that is his mind and glances down at the front yard, with soft rock still playing in his ears. Expecting it to be dark, he notices the flickering of lights, he squints confusedly---his parents are supposed to be asleep, why are they going out to the front of the house at this ungodly hour? </p><p>Thoroughly confused, George opens his window, allowing the chill air of summer England to blow into his room. He leans a bit out of the window to try and catch some unusual activities that may be happening without his knowledge, the smooth wood floor creaking under his feet, yet the front yard has already returned to normal. </p><p>Other than the tire tracks on the dirt ground next to the steps leading to the main entrance that he almost did not spot if not for his observantness. It dawns on him. </p><p>The guest is arriving <em> now </em> . He is in no way presentable, and it is utterly rude to greet a professional guest, a fellow academic, in a set of <em> silk pajamas </em>! Let alone the fact that his pajama top is currently wide open---he felt no need to button them due to, well, summer. </p><p>Panicking, he quickly shuts his window. Right when he’s about the turn around, a voice calls out to him. </p><p>“Hey!” </p><p>He jumps at that. </p><p>George snaps around to see the silhouette of a tall man leaning against the door frame, he tries hard to make out his features in the low light, but it’s futile. The man’s face is completely in the shadows, which is slightly unsettling. George yanks off his headphones, paying close attention to the movements of the stranger. </p><p>He swears he should have brought something to defend himself with. </p><p>The man seems to notice the startled state that George is in, because he then shifts his full weight onto his legs and takes a step in George’s direction, hands raised in front of him to show his intention of no harm. He speaks again, words spilling out of his mouth at a shocking speed. </p><p>“I didn’t mean to scare you, I promise! I---Dr. Hunter said my room’s upstairs and that you might be asleep. I made sure to be quiet but I saw that you weren’t sleeping and I decided to say hello, so,” he pauses, his voice drifts lower as he realizes his rambling. He then extends his hand, his tone warm and friendly, “Nice to meet you though! My name’s Clay, Clay Everett.” </p><p>George takes his hand, noticing how warm it is. Trying to search for his eyes in the dark, George returns the greeting: “I’m George Hunter, nice to meet you too. Sorry for my attire, but you arrived a little late if you expected me to be in anything other than pajamas.” </p><p>He’s slightly shocked again that Clay finds his joke funny as the American chuckles in good humor. </p><p>“Well, I guess it’s getting pretty late and I am tired from all that traveling. I’m gonna talk to you in the morning. G’night!” Clay says as he steps back into the corridor, George thinks he still hears the smile in his voice, even though he cannot make out what he looks like. </p><p>Intrigued, George certainly is, replaying that interaction in his mind as he lays awake in his bed. That was kind of strange, and that boy had so much...personality, to say the least. He sounded unrestrained and lively, conjuring up so many words just for a simple explanation. He is definitely an intriguing person. Was he standing there for as long as he had arrived, waiting until George decided to close the window? Because his luggage was already situated in his room, was it not? </p><p>George’s mind still swirls around as sleep finally rushes over. Some questions he knows he will not have answers to, but that has never stopped him from asking them anyway.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I hope you enjoyed! Thank you for reading and I would love for you to leave your thoughts in the comments, I love reading them and discussing about the fic with you :D</p></blockquote></div></div>
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